


This Love in Moving Pictures

by Attorney C (arh581958)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Amnesia, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Married Couple, Memory Loss, Open Ending, Romantic Fluff, Sex Tapes, amnesiac!Mike, caring!Harvey, getting to know each other (again), slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7920400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Attorney%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something happened in prison. What exactly happened, Mike couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember a lot of things now. There were big lapses in his memory—chucks of it, long periods at a time, a whole lot—just gone like it had never happened. He remembered the essentials though.</p><p>He was Michael James Ross.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Love in Moving Pictures

**Author's Note:**

> I just finished defending my thesis. 4.0, baby! :) To celebrate, I give you all this! Prompted by alexsun2004 on tumblr. Thank you for trusting me with it. I hope I didn't disappoint~ 
> 
> **Not Beta Read**  
>  Please feel free to comment mistakes so I can correct them.

Something happened in prison. _What_ exactly happened, Mike couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember a lot of things now. There were big lapses in his memory—chucks of it, long periods at a time, a whole lot—just _gone_ like it had never happened. He remembered the essentials though.

He was Michael James Ross.

He was 38.

He worked for Pearson-Specter-Litt.

Or, at least, he _did_ before he was arrested.

He didn’t go to Harvard, and he didn’t study law.

He went to jail because of fraud.

After that, he remembered nothing else for the past year and a half.

“The doctors all say that it’s severe traumatic amnesia. It’ll cause your memory to be a little off,” Harvey said. Mike remembered him. He could recall all the times with him—from the very first moment in that Chilton Hotel Room up until… well he couldn’t remember.

There was something missing.

Harvey looked at him with a stern expression. He held himself loosely by the side of the bed. But, Mike knew that face and knew that posture. He knew Harvey. Everything about it screamed distress. Harvey wasn’t angry. He was _sad_ —distraught even. It said so in his eyes, the only thing that he could never fully control.

“So what happens now?” Mike asked, fiddling with his hospital bracelet. Would he go back in? There were some months left on his sentence. He wasn’t sure how long he’d actually been on the inside. That part was lost to him but it couldn’t have been short. The Harvey who stood before him looked so much older and tired.

“Now,” Harvey said with some air of determination, “Now, we go get you home. Judge Carter signed your papers for early release—medical parole.” A flashed of hurt passed through his eyes. “I said I’d get you out—” he clenched his fist against the bedrail, “—it shouldn’t have been because of this.”   

Mike laughed a little to lighten the mood, knocking on the side of his head twice. “Ah, right. Head trauma. Gotcha.” It didn’t work. Harvey still had that brooding look on his face—loathing, self-loathing. “So, err, I guess I’ll just go back to the apartment, huh? Get a new job. Start over?”

Harvey grimaced.

“What? Did that get thrown into the fire too?” He asked, feeling sad. He had bought that house for Grammy when she was still alive. At one point, he imagined himself settling down and living there. It was one of the first adult decisions in his life.

Dr. Hansen came in before Harvey could answer. “Mr. Ross! Mr. Specter! Wonderful to get you both together.” He had the aura of a cheery old grandfather about him, and two nurses hurrying behind his heels. One of them had with a large brown envelop tucked under his armpit while the other held a clipboard.

“I’ve for your recent MRI result and x-rays,” he told Mike, “The swelling in your brain’s gone down and that broken wrist should heal up nicely. I just need your husband’s signature to get you released into his care.” He gestured to the nurse on the right.

“Husband?” Mike repeated, a bit choked.

Dr. Hansen froze. “Oh dear.” His eyes shifted from Mike to Harvey. “You forgot that too. I’m sorry. I thought that—you were just—” His gaze flickered to Harvey then Mike “—so natural with him that it seemed you remembered… well, err, _him_.”

Harvey growled quietly under his breath, barely there but loud enough for Mike to hear. “That’s enough, Dr. Hansen.” Releasing the bedrail, he gestured with his hand. “Just give me what I have to sign so I can get him home.”

Everyone stared at him quietly as he signed the several documents in triplicate. Not even the pen made a scratch. The doctor and the nurses left before the ink dried.

Silence was stifling.

Mike coughed, breaking it. “So, err, we’re married?” He tried, and failed, not to make a big deal out of it, Still, Harvey looked way out of his element. “When, uh, did that happen?”

“The day you became Junior Partner. I abstained myself from voting. You won by a landslide.” A hint of pride made it through Harvey tone, and his eyes were smiling.

“Oh. I did, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Once, it might have been his dream. He might have envisioned himself standing beside Harvey with his name on the wall. SPECTER ROSS, the door would read. Things changed. Now, he felt nothing.

“I just want to go home.”

Harvey didn’t say anything.

Mike turned to his former boss, turned friend, turned husband (apparently).

“Our home, Harvey.”

“Really?”

If this was a cartoon, Harvey’s eyes would have bulged out of his head. It wasn’t. Mike settled for the fact that Harvey’s normally stoic expression in uncertain situations became that of high relief. Worry lines disappeared, and light came back to Harvey’s face. It made him look years younger—better.

“Okay,” Harvey said with a small smile, “Let’s get you home.”

Harvey helped him into a loose light blue denim shirt and a pair of jeans. Ray picked them up from the hospital with a big welcoming smell, then drove them home with jazzy instrumentals in the background. Having Harvey’s steady presence beside him put him at peace. He didn’t know when he dozed off.

When he woke, he found himself on a lush olive green covered bed in an unfamiliar room. It wasn’t Harvey’s room; Or, at least, not the one that he remembered but it had a strange feeling of affinity enveloping it.

He spied a few pictures on the mantle across the bed. Standing up, he strode up to examine them. There were mostly of them together—at home, at the firm, and at Marcus’ restaurant, where he strongly suspects that _he_ popped the question. To suspect it is one thing; to believe it is another. _How_ they could have gotten together in the first place still baffled him.

After going through the photos, he explored the rest of the room. It was smaller than Harvey’s old bedroom but homier. A cozy seating area held a couch and an ottoman, end tables and lamps, a cabinet, and Harvey’s record player in the corner. Some of his favorite books lined a couples of the wall-mounted shelves, Harvey’s vinyl records on others, and a few with their things mixed together.

More pictures were on top of the cabinet—a skiing trip, a beach trip, and a vacation in a boathouse. He brought the last one to his face. It all seemed unreal to him. In the three years that he’s known—at least in the years that he _remembers_ —Harvey had only gone off once, and that was to visit his father’s grave. Now, to see this open and relaxed Harvey felt like he’d been thrown into another dimension.

A door rattled. Two were in his field of vision but there could possibly be more.  

“Mike, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” Harvey said, astonished. He appeared through a short corridor across the room. Damn, he looked good in a pair of sweatpants and a tight shirt. His hair, un-gelled, framed his face.

Mike wanted to touch. He wanted to touch _badly_.

He shifted from foot to foot, nearly dropping the photo he’d unconsciously lifted. He placed it back down with a jerk. “It’s weird,” he confessed, sighing. “It’s all so new but none of it feels like I’m seeing it for the first time—part of me remembers… but just not my mind.”

Harvey flexed his jaw. “My brother and his wife came over while you slept. You remember them?”

“Marcus and L—” Mike frowned, lips curling. He tried hard to remember what came after the first letter. Yes, he did remember her but, “—I forget her name. She has long wavy black hair and blue eyes though. Am I right?” Harvey’s sad smile chipped his.

“Shorter how about…” Harvey gestured right above his collarbone “—this short. Linda had it cut last spring. Keeps getting on her face when she cooked, she said. They brought you some of that meaty lamp soup that you like. I can bring some to the media room if you want eat. I was thinking that we could watch some home videos with the meal. You know, it might help juggle your memory a bit.”

“We have _videos_? More than one?”

“A couple,” Harvey admitted, looking away with a look of embarrassment.

Mike knew _that_ particular look. It curled white hot heat inside his belly whenever he saw it.

“We have sex videos,” he deduced.

Harvey _blushed_ —actually fucking blushed—and it must have been one of the top ten cutest things that Mike’s ever seen. He never thought he’d see it. Hell, he didn’t even remember it existing until today, and he prided in knowing all of Harvey’s facial expressions after three years of knowing the older man.

“Yes.”

Then, _he_ blushed. Mike didn’t expect them to be so… voyeuristic.

“Can we watch it?” The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. Harvey stared at him, and he stared back. Their eyes locked for a solid five minutes. It was insane, and strange, and embarrassing. He was about to retract his words when Harvey spoke again.

“You want to?”

Mike rubbed his neck with his good hand. “I, err, yeah, I guess I do,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “That’s why we have them, right? To watch?”

 “I was going to ease you into this with some vacation videos,” Harvey chuckled lightly, making Mike’s heart beat a little faster, “but, yeah, if that’s what you want to do.” Then, he did something that Mike never expected—he held out his hand. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

Harvey led him through the short corridor, passed the door, into an entry slash stairwell of sorts, then into another room. It was half the size of the bedroom with two walls lined by a large L-shaped leather couch. Light streamed in from the large ceiling to floor windows. A colossal, and he meant colossal, flat screen covered most of the last wall.

“We’re—” He stuttered, suddenly feeling uneasy at seeing himself on the cinema-like proportions, “we’re watching it on _that_?” This time, Harvey full-out laughed _at him_. “What? That this is ginourmous, Harvey! It’s like a freaking movie screen. It’s a monster!”

 Harvey only laughed louder. “That is exactly what you told me when I bought it.” He grinned at Mike. A seductive look flickered on his eyes. “Trust me,” he said, voice lowered by an octave, “you’ll love it.”

Mike felt the shiver all the way down to his toes. “You are strangely more comfortable with this than when we were in the bedroom.”

“I am.” Harvey agreed, going through the motions of setting everything up. Mike lowered himself on the plush leather. “It’s sex,” the older man went on, “I’m used to sex. I used to flourish in it, bury myself in any warm body until you came along and made an honest man out of me. What I don’t do well is intimacy. That’s the reason it took me so long to ask you out.”

“Ahh, so you asked me out.”

“I did. Most of the time under the guise of a client not showing. I’m amazed you didn’t pick-up on that.”

Mike tried to remember. Yes, he did recall several occasions when one of their clients couldn’t make it to a lunch meeting. It often happened in a nice restaurant. He had always wondered _why_ clients would specifically request some place and cancel at the last minute.

“That was seven times!”

Harvey froze from what he was doing. “You remember all of them?”

Mike rattled out the clients, the dates, and their orders—all seven—with a grin. “Wait,” he paused, biting his lip, “I remember another one—small place, yellow walls, with this really sweet round table setting with the tepee cover. We both had lamb, but yours tasted better. You gave me yours. I think I knew it then. Oh my god, Harvey, I can’t remember the name!”

“Queen of Sheba,” Harvey named it for him, “There was wine with the meal. After half a bottle, you kept looking at my lips like you wanted to kiss me. I thought I was either delusional or hopeful. But you ran your mouth about finding me… what was the word… ahh, yes, like a DILF.”

Mike’s face burned so hot it was a wonder why he didn’t burn the couch. “God, fuck, I remember that,” he wailed, trying to cover his face with both hands. It jostled his broken wrist. “Aww, fuck!”

Harvey immediately turned to him with a worried expression.

“I’m alright.” Mike waved the older man off. “Is it ready? I’m getting a little hungry.”

Harvey stood up with a nod. He put the TV remote on the coffee table in front of Mike. “I’ll go get you some stew in a bowl. Don’t start without me,” he said with a wink before disappearing through the door.

Mike sat there staring at his husband’s—he felt calmer using the word now—back. The remote and the large wide-screen taunted him of what was to come. A sex video; he was about to watch a video of Harvey and him having sex. This all must be a dream—a very good dream from the way it stirred something in his nether regions.

Harvey came back with a bowl of fragrant stew. For a moment, Mike’s curiosity was abated by hunger. His mouth watered at the scent of spices, tomatoes, and lamb meat.

“Open your mouth,” Harvey instructed, bowl in hand as he sat beside Mike.

“I’m injured not invalid,” Mike complained under his breath, slightly embarrassed by the open affection.

Harvey lifted his eyebrow. The familiar gesture wound Mike up. “Ten point, Captain Obvious. Would you care to tell me _how_ you’re going to eat with one hand? This isn’t exactly the dining room. There’s no place for you to set the bowl down.”

Flushing, Mike realized that Harvey was right.

“Fine.”

Harvey fed him piece by piece with patient precision. He knew exactly Mike would want another bite, blowing steam from each mouthful as they went. Bit of lamb, crushed tomato, and vegetables slowly filled Mike’s belly until he was full.

“One last,” Harvey offered, scraping the last bits of sauce, “open wide.”

Mike obeyed. He opened his mouth wide for Harvey to feed him, pliant and content to be coddled like a child. His belly was warm with more than just food. It was filled with comfort and endearment that Harvey gave him with every bite. It was overwhelming to feel Harvey’s love for him.

“That was good,” he said, licking his lips.

Harvey chuckled and placed the bowl down, taking the remote as he came back. “That’s good. I’ll tell Marcus that you liked it. I’m sure it’s a special homemade batch and not just from the kitchens. Shall we begin?”

Suddenly, Mike felt a little shy but he nodded anyway. “Fire away, when ready, captain, all systems go.”

Harvey sat a back against the deep backrest and pressed play. Mike didn’t know why but his body automatically followed, curling into Harvey’s space. Harvey accepted him warmly with an arm draped over his shoulders.

Mike settled down, feeling at ease since the first time he woke up. He might not remember how they got to this point but he remembered Harvey. For now, it was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to hear your opinions on this; does this feel a little bland? It does so to me, and I can't figure out why. I seriously tried but I felt like I was just _watching_ the character while writing it, not _being one with them_ like I normally do. Can you help me figure out what's wrong? I've been feeling like that for most of my stories lately. I can't shake it off. It's disheartening. :(
> 
> Anyway... If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~
> 
> As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).


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